Make It Better
by crazylittleelf
Summary: Speculative post-ep for Bound. Hurt/comforty sort of thing.
1. Chapter 1

She looks like absolute hell. Livid bruises across one elegant cheekbone, cuts on her knuckles and the backs of her hands. Shoulders hunched forward, picture of misery and I'm torn between relief that she's ok and rage that she ran straight into harm's way yet again. A nurse is wrapping her right wrist, covering the bruises there. Olivia's arguing with her about something, brow furrowed and frowning stubbornly. Sighs, rolls her eyes and looks up, scanning the room in a nervous pattern. The ER is teaming but she sees me through the crowd as I weave my way towards her and she makes a relieved little sound when I reach her.

"I need a ride home." She's swinging her legs impatiently, wearing scrubs that fit her like a tent.

"They're letting you go already?" Frowning at this 'cause there's no way in hell they should be letting her out yet. I don't even know how she got here. Astrid was light on details when she called and I was more interested in getting here than asking questions.

"Peter... please." There's an edge of panic to her voice, notes of fear I've never heard from her before and it elicits a sympathetic response that makes my palms sweat and pulse race. "I need to go home. There's nothing wrong that I need to stay in the hospital." Pleading look and she has to know I can't resist. Someone else has to say no to her. Where the hell is everyone else?

"Where's Broyles? Astrid said he'd be here."

"Upstairs. Waiting for me to be moved to a room." Slightest raise of her eyebrow and the corner of her mouth twitches up in a tiny smile. I'm torn between sobbing and laughing, stunned that she can even attempt a joke.

"Is that a good idea? Pissing him off?"

Shrugs just her left shoulder and the nurse is done with her wrist. "I'm not staying here."

"You have your clothing somewhere?" and jesus that was the wrong thing to ask. Her breathing goes fast and shallow and she's shaking her head but it's not in answer to my question. Her eyes are unfocused, seeing through me. I want to smash my fist through something, preferably the face of whoever hurt her and there's a tiny little bit of me that wants to shake her, too. God, she's stupid sometimes and I thought I was self-destructive but I've got nothing on her.

"Hey, Olivia. It's ok. The scrubs are fine. You can wear those home. Ok?" Her eyes slowly focus on mine, coming back from miles away and she shudders.

"Yeah. I just wanna go home."

The nurse is looking at me disapprovingly, glaring, but she goes to get the release forms anyway. Olivia's eyes are glassy by the time she gets back. The nurse's are icy, all directed at me, like this is my fault and I feel guilt enough already, I don't need someone else helping out in that department. The last few days have been hellish and exhausting and I've discovered new depths to my self-loathing. I've also discovered that I'm completely unable to function without her, a truth laid bare by circumstance and unavoidable. It pesters my thoughts as I watch her now.

She struggles signing the endless forms and I'm guessing sprain rather than fracture. Hurting her badly enough and I want to take the pen and sign for her. Sure that wouldn't go over well with Nurse Ice Capades and I just want to get out of here as fast as possible so I watch her struggle with the pen and try not to cause trouble. Finally done, a fist full of prescriptions and we're on our way. The lovely nurse gives me a final glare and it dawns on me that she's cast me in the role of abusive boyfriend, Olivia's bruises and defensive wounds reinforcing the idea.

My hand's shaking as I lay it on her back to guide her out and I'm unprepared when she flinches away.

"Olivia?"

She doesn't answer, just wraps her arms around herself. I keep my distance and feel a little sick when she doesn't drift towards me like usual. She's shivering before we reach the parking garage and I hand her my jacket. Pulls it around herself awkwardly, trying to avoid using her right hand. Try to help her into the car and she all but snarls at me for the effort. It's a fight not to snarl back, not to yell, not to demand why she has to do everything alone, not to take my fear out on her.

She's out cold when I park in front of her building. I kill the engine and come around to her side. I wonder if I could get away with carrying her upstairs but the chance for physical harm is pretty high if she wakes up and tries to kill me. Pass on that. The bruise is spreading to the soft skin under her eye and she's going to have a hell of a shiner by morning. Her lips are parted slightly, breathing ragged and I hate to wake her but I'm freezing my ass off out here without my jacket.

"Wake up. Olivia, we're home," and I wince at the slip, glad she's still asleep. "Hey, let's go in. It's cold out here." I brush my fingers across her cheek just as her eyes flutter open, then she's drawing away, whimpering in fear.

"Don't." The pleading in her voice kills me.

"It's me. Olivia, you're safe. It's ok." I rock back on my heels, crouching against the curb to try and give her space. She's shivering violently and seeing her so terrified makes my stomach twist and I have to bite back a sob. "Olivia... look at me. Look."

She meets my eyes and I can see her forcing the panic away. She relaxes slowly, mumbling apologies. I mumble soothing things back. Hold my hand out to her. "Come on. Let's go inside."

Hesitates before letting me help her, of course. She doesn't pull away as we walk up the steps. She doesn't protest when I take the keys from her as she fumbles with the lock. She's weaving a little when she walks across the room.

"I'm gonna go change."

"Sure. Where do you want these?" Rattle the little bottles of pills.

"Kitchen."

Pain meds and antibiotics. Snoop in her fridge for a moment on the pretense of getting her a glass of milk to wash them down, but it's nearly as empty as the one in my hotel room. Head towards where she disappeared with thoughts of grocery shopping, gallant Peter saving the day with a carton of milk and a couple cans of soup.

Her back is towards me, injured arm tangled in a sleeve and she gets the shirt tugged down a second too late.

"Jesus, Olivia. What the hell?"

"Nothing."

Moving towards her, drawn, my hand's on her shoulder and she freezes. I whisper her name and my voice sounds strangled, alien and I'm not sure what she hears but her head drops forward and she nods slightly.

I brush my fingers down her spine, barely touching, to the hem of her shirt. Lift it slowly and I'm trying not to touch her skin because I just don't trust myself and it looks even worse the second time I see it.

Roundish bruise, vivid red in the center, spreading like a blight over her pale skin. It's over her spine, just below her shoulder blades and my mind stalls out trying to figure out what the fuck they did to her.

"Olivia...?" My voice is shaking and there's no way I can finish the question, but she hears it anyway.

"I don't know what it was. The normal tox screen didn't show anything. I had them send a blood sample to the lab." Her voice is flat. Cold and quiet and I know it's how she keeps from screaming.

I'm staring at the mark, transfixed and I forget myself. Brush my fingers over it. She shivers and makes a mewling sound. She's swaying on her feet and she should be in bed, not letting me gawk at her wounds. My mind's stuck chanting "she's hurt," and the bruise is the ugliest thing I've ever seen and it has no business being on her. She's hurt and I couldn't stop it. She's hurt and I've splayed my hand across her back. She's hurt and I'm moving before my brain registers the intent and by then it's too late. She's hurt and I press my lips gently, gently to her back and the breath she's been holding gusts out with the ghost of a sound that might be my name.

I pull her shirt down and step back. "Walter will find out what it was. We'll find out."

She turns and looks as dazed as I feel. Nods, then backs up a few steps towards the bed. "I'm... I'm really tired." She's thinking carefully about her words and I can tell many are rejected before they pass her lips. "Thank you... for driving me... and..."

"Of course."

She's nodding and the backs of her legs hit the bed, stopping her retreat.

"I'll come by and check on you in the morning."

"You don't... I mean... if you want to. Yeah." She looks puzzled by her lack of resistance.

"G'night, Olivia." Pick my jacket up from the floor where she dropped it and retrace my steps to the door, locking it before I leave. The jacket smells of her and I want to bury my face in it. I lean against the car and exhaustion catches up with me and I contemplate crawling into the backseat rather than driving across town. I weigh the merits of calling a cab or Astrid. I wonder vaguely if Walter's a safer driver than I am right now. I'm getting strange looks from a guy walking his dog.

Take myself home and lie sleepless in my bed, tired to the core and unable to stop my racing mind thinking of all the things I should have said to her. Tomorrow, I vow, and know it's a lie, but it's a nice enough lie to sing me to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"G'night, Olivia." He scoops his jacket up and I feel a stab of disappointment, then my face goes hot with embarrassment that I had been looking forward to cuddling it like a security blanket tonight. He's turning the lights out on his way to the front door, leaving me in the well-lit sanctuary of my bedroom. I hear the door close behind him and I'm alone.

Alone.

I walk over to the doorway and switch off the light, dropping inky darkness down on me. I switch it back on immediately. I cross to the bed and turn on the lamp there. I watch the dark room beyond the doorway for long minutes before walking back towards it, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. It's only been days that I was gone, but there's a feeling of strangeness to everything now, the lost time wreaking havoc on my equilibrium.

I stare into the abyss of my apartment trying to find familiarity. I can see the faint blue glow from the kitchen, the strip of yellow light under the door, the little amber light on my laptop. The little lights are no match for the black pools between them. The pools hold memories of falling to the wet ground as consciousness spun away from me and burning pain in my arms as they hauled me upwards for a dizzying moment before I blacked out. It's the darkness of the dingy warehouse that reeked of chemicals and fear, remembered in nonsensical fragments. My hand's shaking as I pull it away from the wall.

I back towards my bed again, towards the circle of light from the lamp, and scramble up to press my back against the headboard. I'm trying to slow my breathing but terror keeps driving me towards hyperventilating. I draw my knees tight to my chest and pull my eyes away from the dark doorway to stare at the pattern of my bedspread. I count repetitions there, the number of lines and intersections. The sequence is soothing and my heart stops pounding as the fear recedes to a manageable distance.

It's not just fear. I'm rolling the film of the last twenty minutes over in my mind, picking apart his actions and motives, wondering how he's able to slip so easily past my defenses. I let him get far too close this time. I press my back harder against the headboard, wincing as it makes contact with the needle mark. Pain replaces the skittery heat that his lips left. His lips... god, he kissed me. I'd like it to be easy to explain away, friendly gesture that I don't need to over-analyze, but my mind's balking at that. The messages we telegraph in our too-long stares and overly flirtatious banter are clear even if I'm not willing to deal with them. I suppose I can add wildly inappropriate touching to the list of things we should not be doing.

I crawl under the blankets and force the thoughts away. I can only lay on my back a few minutes before shuddering and curling onto my side to stare at the lamp. The skin of my cheek crawls at the remembered touch of a gloved hand, of being unable to turn away, unable to move. I twitch my arms to reassure myself. There's something more, a voice, a familiar mannerism but it's fleeting and I'm tired to the point of tears. I force those thoughts away, too. They can wait. Now I just want to sleep.

Sleep is long in coming, though, and it feels like like mere moments before I'm startled awake by the front door opening.

I'm grasping for my gun, not finding it and my sleep deprived brain isn't quite making connections yet when I smack my wrist into the side table. Pain radiates along my arm and I'm nearly panting as wakefulness crashes down on me. There's a memory of desperately trying to get away from someone, the reverberating shock that ached across the back of my hand as my fist slammed into flesh, of someone viciously twisting my hand and forcing me to the ground. I know I fought my way free, but there's little to connect those memories to the ones of waking up outside the emergency room. Still, I allow myself a grim little smile as my breathing slows.

Peter pokes his head around the doorway. "Your locks suck. You should replace those." He's looking at me appraisingly and it doesn't look like he slept any better than I did. There are dark smudges under his eyes and he seems scruffier than usual. "I got you some groceries. Go shower." He's moving towards the kitchen before I can put together a response and I settle for glaring at his back. The thought that Peter can enter my home at will irritates me. I'm trying to summon the energy to yell at him when the sound of a paper bag crumpling and the fridge slamming shut brings me up short.

He's knocking around in the kitchen putting away groceries. Groceries that no one else would have dared buy for me, not even Charlie, because I chase everyone away. The little seed of resentment towards him dies quietly in the back of my mind as I listen to the strangely comforting sounds of another person moving around the next room over.

I'm still sitting in bed a few minutes later when he comes back with a glass of milk and some pills. I swallow them without question and he's watching me like he does when he wants to know something. It's a dangerous look and I can't really explain why he can get me to confess so readily to him just by staring at me. I avoid his eyes but it's only delaying the inevitable.

He takes the empty glass from my hand. "Go shower. You'll feel better after." He retreats to the kitchen and I'm grateful for the reprieve.

He's right, of course. The water loosens stiff muscles and gives me time to draw up a little plan of action that includes getting Peter to take me to the lab so Walter can poke around in my mind for the memories I want. I map out the impending clash with Peter and frown at myself when I can't even win the argument in my head. I sigh and turn my face up to the water until it starts running cold.

The pain pills are giving my thoughts a fuzzy, careless quality. I rub at the mirror awkwardly with my left hand, clearing away a hole in the condensation. I get the feeling that it's someone else looking back at me but she's blinking at the same time I am so I suppose it's close enough for government work. The bruise on my cheek is a puffy rainbow of pestilent colors and the skin around my eye is well on it's way to raccoon-land. The mark on my spine is a fascinating spiderweb of broken capillaries over a marbled surface. A bloodshot, purple eye in the center of my back, watching me as I look over my shoulder at it in the mirror.

I'm high as a kite, stark naked in my bathroom while Peter Bishop puts groceries away in my kitchen. I blink at myself in the mirror and giggle hysterically while pulling on my clothing. Little beads of water run down the mirror, making paths though the condensation. Little paths to follow and I'm anxious to be away, following paths as well.

Wrapping my wrist is beyond me so I carry the bandage out to the kitchen. He takes it from me without a word and I'm not surprised that he's well versed in tending injuries. He holds my hand loosely in his when he's finished, frowning at my swollen fingers. His jaw is clenching and his eyes are hot with anger but his fingers stay gentle as they trace the edge of the bandage against my knuckles. The duality is mesmerizing in my drug-lucid state.

"I swear to god, Olivia, if you ever do anything like that again..." He trails off and I can't look away from the seething pools of his eyes. His voice is low and telegraphs threats and consequences. I've seen flashes of his temper before when he's snapped at Walter, railed against the case we're working, lost it with Broyles. He's turned it on me a time or two but it's obvious now that they were glancing blows. Being the target of the full force of his anger triggers a panic response and I pull my hand away, jarring my wrist and I clench my eyes shut against the tears.

"I was doing my job." My voice sounds like a whine to my ears and I hate myself for that.

"Every other agent who was doing their job wasn't alone that night. They all had backup with them. What the hell were you thinking?"

"You want me to hire a bodyguard so I'm never alone?"

"I want you to be more careful. Do you have any idea what we went through trying to find you? Astrid hasn't slept in a week. Charlie's been blaming himself for not getting to you in time. Broyles is being more of a prick than usual. Walter..." He chokes up and the venom in his voice is like a fist to my stomach. "Walter's been having nightmares. He wakes up screaming half a dozen times every night. I'm... "

He shakes his head and turns away, digs his fingers into his hair in a frustrated gesture. He keeps his hands on top of his head and I wonder if he realizes the connotations of surrender that has for me with my FBI training. I almost laugh at that. Of course he does.

"They took you once, too." My voice is a whisper and I try to keep it steady but it breaks a little at the end.

He turns back to me slowly. He's watching me, looking for something and I feel like we spend half our lives staring at each other. He swallows hard and drops his hands. He looks away, over my shoulder and I can tell he's ordering his thoughts. The anger drains away and when he finally looks back to me all that's left in his gray-green eyes is remorse.

"I should go. You need to rest." He's turning towards the door.

"Peter, when you were taken... Do you remember what happened to you?"

His eyes darken and he frowns at me. "Yeah. More than I'd like. I passed out a few times, but I remember it. Why?"

"I can't remember. There are little pieces, but that's all."

"It's ok. It might come back..."

"No, Peter, I need to remember. There was someone there. Someone I know. I need to know who it was."

"Where? You recognized one of the people who took you?"

"I think so. I remember thinking that, but I can't remember actually seeing them. I need to know..." My voice has taken on a shaky quality and I can't keep my eyes open. The way he's watching me is too painful.

I can hear him walking towards me. He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on the top of my head. I freeze for a moment before I let out a shuddery breath and let him pull me close, my injured arm trapped between us. His voice rumbles in his chest and I feel it more than I hear it. "So, what now?"

I pull away, and swipe angrily at my eyes. He pretends to not notice the tears. "We should check and see if Walter's gotten anywhere with the blood sample the hospital sent."

"You should check in with Broyles at some point."

I make a face. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"What? I'm sure he loved being ditched at the hospital. Come on, he has such a great sense of humor."

I smile at him gratefully, grateful that I can smile so easily with him. He pauses at the door, blocking the way, and opens his mouth to say something, but I'm not sure I want to hear it.

"Let's stop for breakfast somewhere. Ok?

He gives me a sad little half-smile and nods. "Sure, Olivia. That's fine."

The door slams shut behind us.


End file.
